The Girls They Left Behind (2 page)

It was queer to think she was a married woman now. It

didn’t seem right that her life hadn’t changed. Apart from that

one day and night with Derek, everything was the same. She

got up each morning, helped her mum get breakfast ready,

went off to the office and spent the day typing out letters and

invoices. A lot of building had stopped because of the war,

and business was slack, but John Harker wasn’t worried about

that. ‘It’ll pick up soon enough, once the bombing starts,’ he

said grimly. ‘There’ll be plenty needs doing then.’

On Thursday evenings Olive usually finished a few

minutes early and went to the pictures with Betty. There

didn’t seem to be any point in changing that, just because she

was now a married woman. The men had already gone home

and she was shuffling together her papers when her fatherin-law

came in.

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘You go off and enjoy yourself. A

couple of hours at the Odeon’ll do you good.’

Olive smiled at him. It already seemed an eternity since

Derek had gone away and she missed him more each day.

Funny to think that this time last week they hadn’t even been

married…

The air was split by the sudden wail of a siren. Its sound

rose and fell like the howl of a banshee. For a full minute it

maintained its unearthly shrieking, and then it died slowly

away. In the silence left behind, it was as if the whole world

held its breath.

Olive stopped what she was doing, a bundle of papers

slipping from fingers that had suddenly frozen, and stared at

John Harker. For a brief moment, the man and girl stood

riveted, their eyes locked. Then John reached out and

grabbed Olive’s arm.

‘The shelter! Quick - leave that.’

‘But the invoices—’

‘Leave them! This is it, Olive. I can hear the planes already.’

‘Maybe it’s another false alarm =

`There’ve been German planes around all day. They’ve been all along the coast. They’ve tried twice already — I heard it on the news. But this lot’s got through. Drop the papers, Livvy, and get over to the shelter quick. I’ll fetch Florrie.’

He pulled her through the door and they ran across the

yard. The Anderson was in the garden, through a tall gate set in the wall that separated the Harkers’ home from the business. John Harker put his hand between Olive’s shoulder blades and gave her a shove that sent her staggering through the gate and halfway down the garden path. Then he turned and ran into the house.

He and Florrie Harker scrambled down into the dim, musty shelter only seconds before the first explosion.

Olive’s cousins, Tim and Keith Budd, were involved in a game of cowboys and Indians. Each armed with a toy pistol, they had scurried out as soon as tea was over to join the children who were, for one reason or another, still at home in Portsmouth, and not evacuated to the country. Some had been evacuated and returned after a few weeks, homesick or even badly treated, some had come to the conclusion that there was, after all, no danger from bombing or gas, and some had never left Portsmouth at all, despite the entreaties of the authorities.

Micky Baxter was one of these. Always the wild boy of April Grove, he had exulted in the sudden freedom of no school and formed a small gang of boys who had nothing to do and all day to do it in. Together, they had roamed the streets, looking for mischief and having no trouble in finding it. Their exploits had come to a head when they had held up an assistant in a jewellery shop with a pistol left over from the 1914-18 war. Micky was still on probation for that, but it didn’t seem to make much difference.

Jess Budd didn’t like her boys playing with Micky Baxter, but although they were half afraid of his scapegrace nature,

they were also fascinated by it. And although a lot of children had come back, their own special friends were still out at Bridge End, where they’d been evacuated.

They gathered at the end of April Grove, near the Budds’ house. Tim and Keith were both cowboys, like Micky, and the Indians were Martin Baker, who had come back from evacuation with appendicitis, Jimmy Cross and Cyril Nash, who had a pale, angelic face with large brown eyes and spent most of his time trying to undo the impression that his name and appearance invariably created.

Only those who possessed pistols were allowed to be

cowboys, and Micky was undisputed leader because his was reputed to be real. Tim and Keith, who had heard the story of the jeweller’s shop, glanced at it with respect, and kept their distance, thankful that they weren’t Indians. Suppose it was still loaded? But Jimmy Cross scoffed at them.

‘Course it ain’t that one. They took it off him, didn’t they? Anyway, me and Cyril’s got real catapults, better’n any old toy guns, they are.’

He displayed the weapons, made of forked sticks and a wide strip of rubber. Tim watched enviously as he bent, picked up a stone from the road, and sent it zinging down the street. Mrs Seddon, who kept the corner shop, came out of her side gate just as the stone whistled past her and she looked up sharply. The boys skittered hastily into a nearby alley.

I hope she doesn’t tell Mum, Tim thought anxiously, but the game was starting now and the three Indians were fleeing up the alley looking for places to hide.

The cowboys turned their backs, as the rules of the game demanded, and scuffed their toes in the dust.

‘I s’pose you’ll be goin’ back to the country soon,’ Micky observed. runnin’ away from the bombs.’

‘We’re not running away.’ Tim protested, uncomfortably aware that they were. ‘We only came back to see our Olive get married. Anyway, it’s good in the country. There’s all sorts of things to do.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Micky sneered. Tickin’ flowers? Countin’ sheep? That’s girls’ stuff.’

‘There’s plenty of things besides that. Good trees to climb.

7

Birds’ nests. And we help on the farm, too. We can milk cows.’

‘Milk cows? I’d sooner get it out of a bottle. Catch me goin’ to the country. I’d rather stay here — no school or nothing, do what you like. It’s good.’

‘There are schools,’ Keith said. ‘Our school’s open, I heard Mum say so when she and Dad were talking about us stopping here. But Dad says there’s going to be bad bombing soon and he wants us out of it.’

‘I ‘ope there is,’ Micky said. ‘I want the bombs to come. I ain’t scared of ‘em. Smash! Crash! Just like Saturday morning pictures, it’ll be.’

‘But suppose Germans come?’ Keith asked, speaking the name in a whisper. `S’pose they invade? That means they’ll come and live in our houses, they’ll take away everything. What’ll you do then?’

‘I’ll fight ‘em, that’s what I’ll do.’ Micky lifted his arm and bent it, clenching his fist to make the biceps stand out. ‘Tell you what, they’re goin’ to come in parachutes. I’ll catch one of them, tie him up in his own parachute and take him down the police station.’ He frowned, thinking of his last visit to that establishment. ‘No, I won’t, I’ll take him up Hilsea Barracks, let the soldiers have him. They won’t get our house.’

‘You’re daft,’ Tim said. ‘There’s going to be hundreds of them — thousands. They’ll have guns and bayonets and everything. You’ll have to hide and keep out of their way. And I tell you what, it’ll be better out in the country then. The people out there, they’ve taken all the signposts down — the Germans won’t be able to find their way anywhere, they’ll be lost. We’ll know where we are, but they won’t.’

‘They won’t want to go out there anyway.’ Micky glanced over his shoulder. The alleyway was deserted, the Indians long vanished from sight. ‘I reckon they’ve had long enough to find hideouts now. Anyway, I bet I know where they’ve gone. They’ll be round Carlisle Crescent. Just because Jimmy Cross lives near there, he thinks it’s the only place to hide.’

The three boys cocked their pistols and ran up the alley, keeping an eye open as they passed open gateways in case the

8

Indians were skulking in someone’s garden. There was no sign of them as they passed along the back of September Street and came to the railway line and level crossing. Carlisle Crescent was on the other side of the track, and Tim and Keith hesitated.

The railway line formed a natural boundary to their normal

territory. Although they were allowed to go out to play in the streets, they were not supposed to go beyond certain limits without first letting their mother know. April Grove, March and October Streets, with their maze of alleyways created a small, tight neighbourhood where all the children and adults were known to each other. Cars seldom appeared there, especially in the evenings, and only tradesmen’s carts and wagons made regular appearances during the day. Ball games, skipping, hopscotch and marbles could be played unhindered, and although some of the less tolerant residents might object to the constant thud of a ball against the wall of their house, and even forbid the chalking of cricket stumps or goal posts on the bricks, they did little more than make occasional testy appearances, chasing away the offending children. Usually, the children returned after a few days, chalked up their goal posts again and resumed their games.

Children from other streets were less welcome. They were looked upon with suspicion and told to ‘Go and play in your own street’. And by the same unwritten rule, if you went to someone else’s street you were likely to be sent off with a flea in your ear.

But Jimmy Cross lived in Carlisle Crescent, or near enough, Tim reasoned. So it ought to be all right to go there. And as for letting Mum know, she couldn’t expect him to break off from a game of cowboys and Indians to run home and tell her they might be going over the railway. Specially after what Micky Baxter had been saying about them running away from the bombs.

Anyway, they’d be back long before she came out to call them in for bed, so she’d never know. And as long as they didn’t run into Dad, walking home from work, they’d be safe.

The crossing gates were closed and a train approached

along the track. The boys scampered up the steps of the

9

bridge and the engine chugged beneath, its roar filling their ears. Steam and smoke billowed around them and they capered about in the cloud, delighted, flapping their hands in front of their faces and grinning at each other through the swirling mist before scuttering down the steps on the other side and into Carlisle Crescent

The houses here were posher than in April Grove. They weren’t in a terrace but were separate, some in twos and some on their own. They were all slightly different and some were bungalows. They had front gardens, big enough for a bit of lawn, and in a few there were bushes and even a tree or two. A couple had greenhouses with tomato plants growing in them. It was almost as good as the country, Tim thought, wishing he could live in such a house. Fancy having grass in your garden, just like a real field!

The three cowboys entered the crescent cautiously, their pistols still held at the ready as they searched for signs of Indians. One of the gardens had a low wall running along beside it and they ran across to it, half-crouching, and peered cautiously over the top, as cowboys did at the cinema.

Tim’s hero was Roy Rogers, who had a marvellous horse called Trigger. He modelled himself on Roy Rogers now, imagining himself in cowboy gear, with chaps on his trousers and a holster slung at his waist. He noticed that Keith was limping slightly. Keith’s favourite was Hopalong Cassidy.

Zing! A stone whistled past their ears and bounced off the wall beside them. The cowboys jumped, startled, and Tim remembered the catapults. He waved his pistol, regretting the lack of caps. At least he could have made a noise. As it was, he felt helpless.

Another stone whizzed past, almost grazing his cheek, and he was suddenly angry. His mum and dad had always laid down very strict rules about throwing stones. You only threw them into the sea, and even then only when there were no swimmers about. And you never, never threw them at people.

‘They’re cheating,’ he hissed. ‘Stones are dangerous. They could hit us in the eye.’

Micky too was feeling disgruntled. The catapults had put the Indians at an advantage, and that was against the rules.

The cowboys were supposed to win. He debated introducing a new rule, that only cowboys could have catapults, but knew that the Indians would claim that they were nearer to bows and arrows and should therefore be theirs. Perhaps it would be better if catapults weren’t allowed at all. But that would mean he couldn’t have one either, and he’d already made up his mind to get himself the best in the street.

If only he hadn’t had to give up the old Army pistol. It hadn’t actually been his, but he’d been the only one with the nerve to carry it. If he still had that — and could get some ammunition for it — well, there wouldn’t be any dispute then. He’d win every time.

He thought of the German parachutist he meant to catch. He’d be armed. Perhaps Micky could get his pistol off him-and some bullets as well. He wouldn’t even have to worry about swearing the man to secrecy, since he wouldn’t be able to talk English.

Feeling suddenly cheerful, he brought his mind back to the game in hand and nodded.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Stones aren’t allowed.’ He stood, up, braving the hail of stones now flying at them from the alleyway across the street, and shouted, ‘The game’s over. You’re cheating, so we’ve won. Come out or we’ll come over and take you prisoner.’

For answer, the biggest stone of all came flying towards him. He ducked, and two things happened very quickly.

From immediately behind him came the sound of splintering

glass as the stone smashed into a greenhouse. And from above, from all around, vibrating in the very ground beneath their feet, came the howl of the air-raid siren.

It swelled through the air, filling the sky, spreading over their heads, shrieking its way through the streets, between the houses, along the alleyways and into every narrow passage. It forced its way into houses and woke babies in their cots; it startled old men and women dozing in chairs. It transfixed lovers in quiet corners, and froze women standing at stoves as they cooked their families’ suppers. It shrieked at people on the way home from work, leaving them stunned as the unearthly wail rose and fell about them. And as the droning